


The Misunderstanding

by ThetaSigma



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, John and Greg meddle, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mycroft and Sherlock's feud
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 05:44:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13991715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThetaSigma/pseuds/ThetaSigma
Summary: John is determined to get to the bottom of why the two idiot Holmeses can't get along. Enlisting Greg, he gets the answer -- and if those two idiots justtalked, they wouldn't have a decades-long feud between them.They're going to fix that now.





	The Misunderstanding

“Greg, I need your help,” John said as he set the pints down on the table.

Greg scrubbed a hand over his face. John’s previous requests for help had ranged from easy (text when Sherlock arrived) to bloody tough (seriously please don’t tell anyone about the gun, please?). He’d done all he could every time John asked – hell, John was pretty much his brother-in-law at this point. Family came first (and even if _not_ , they were friends. Good friends.)

“What is it?” Greg asked, half-curious, half-wary. (Half- _weary_ , really).

“Sherlock and Mycroft. Those two idiots will never stop fighting on their own,” John said. “Hell, half the time, the only way they know anything about each other is because we communicate constantly.”

Greg squinted at him, then at his beer. “Fuck, if we’re going to plan on how to solve the idiot Holmes brothers, I need something stronger. Whisky. Get me whisky.”

John returned with two doubles. “Now. I _know_ they care about each other – remember when _your_ idiot overworked himself with pneumonia and ended up in hospital?”

Greg nodded, a shadow crossing his face at the memory. “My ended up on a ventilator, I didn’t forget _that_.”

“The second you called, Sherlock was dashing about the flat, grabbing his things to go see Mycroft.”

“Yeah, but then he stood there and glared.”

“The second you left – the only one who would tell Mycroft what happened – Sherlock sat down, grabbed his hand, and said, ‘You’re not _allowed_ to die, brother mine.’”

Greg raised an eyebrow. “Huh. And you know My’s always monitoring Sherlock. Hell, the number of times you two end up in hospital… if you ever have to stay, My makes sure to stop by.”

“Not that Sherlock appreciates it,” John said with a snort.

Greg looked down at his drink. The memory of Mycroft in hospital had stirred up a question he had wanted to ask for a long time. “How do you do it?” he asked.

“Do what?” John asked, confused.

“Keep going into danger with him. Knowing he could be hurt. How do you function?”

John shrugged. “He’s not going to stop just because I don’t go. Hell, I wouldn’t want him to, I _like_ what we do. If I’m with him… Well, no one’s going to fight as hard to keep him alive as I am. _He’s_ my priority, not the law, not justice, not making sure some arsehole gets out of that _alive_ to answer questions. No one else loves him like I do and no one else will fight with everything to protect him from even the smallest scrape. And he does the same for me. When we _do_ get hurt… I’m there to fix him up. Who else has both those skills? Fighter _and_ healer?”

Greg hummed in acknowledgment. He didn’t bother responding to John’s casual threat to others’ lives if they tried to hurt Sherlock. He _knew_ that already (he was most definitely not an idiot – he had seen the look Sherlock shot John during the cabbie case, and the way Sherlock faltered. The more he got to know John, the more he realised that all of Sherlock’s deductions applied. But he kept his silence).

“But the two of them,” he said. “That’s an _old_ fight – it predates both of us. What makes you think we can fix it?”

“Because I think something _started_ it. I don’t talk to Mycroft often, thank _God_ , but he’s told me snippets of Sherlock’s childhood with affection. And Sherlock, when he does talk about his childhood, changes. Dunno, he’s just… more open about Mycroft when he was young. It makes me think that there was something.”

“So, what, you want to ask them?” Greg frowned. “They’ll never actually tell us.”

John shrugged. “I dunno. Sherlock might tell me, if I’m sneaky enough about it. Or persistent enough.”

Greg thought. “My might tell me…” he said doubtfully. “Fine, I’ll ask. You do the same, and we’ll meet again?”

“Sounds like something approaching a plan.”

*** 

“Get anything?” John asked a few weeks later. 

“Yeah, and it’s… wow. A misunderstanding, and those two never _talked_ about it again.”

“Sherlock said Mycroft didn’t approve of him being gay, then sneered that clearly he’d changed his mind, if _you’re_ around.”

“Yeah, uh, Mycroft _didn’t_ disapprove of that. He told me the story.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“My came home from uni and saw Sherlock had bruises. A lot of them. He assumed it was due to a relationship, so he asked about a girlfriend. Sherlock told him the usual: ‘not my area’. My got upset that a man was hurting Sherlock, since he figured a man could do a lot more damage, and different kind – ”

“Penetration?” John asked.

“Yeah, that’s what he was implying, I think. You know the way he talks, sometimes I _still_ don’t follow.”

“Go on.”

“And I guess Sherlock saw something in his expression, and misunderstood, and railed about how he was _gay_ and Mycroft could _bloody well accept that_ and stormed off. Mycroft felt wrong-footed and didn’t know how to explain.”

“So the two decided a cold war was a better answer than fucking _talking_ about this?”

Greg shrugged. “Not sure if they talked about it again. My tried to make it clear that he _had_ no issues with Sherlock’s sexuality, but Sherlock – ”

“Yeah, he couldn’t forget the look on Mycroft’s face, I know.”

Greg shook his head. “Idiots,” he said fondly. “Look, we’ll get them to _talk_ about it. Dinner Saturday?”

“Sherlock’ll fight it.”

“Mycroft won’t like it either.”

John grinned wryly. “He’s not my biggest fan most of the time.”

“He thought you’d actually be a voice of reason, but half the time you’re in the thick of things,” Greg said with a grin.

John laughed. “Yeah, like that was ever gonna happen – me being a voice of reason. Sherlock would never put up with me if I _were_.”

“Look, My won’t leave if you’re both coming. I dunno, blindfold your husband and bring him by?”

John cocked his head. “I could always tell Sherlock it’s your birthday. I’ve sorta instilled that birthdays are things us normal people celebrate with _family_ , and you may as well be our brother-in-law.”

“It’s not, though, that’s in September.”

“Yeah, but you think _Sherlock_ remembers when your birthday is? He barely remembers _mine_ , and I _married_ him.”

Greg pursed his lips as he thought about it. “Yeah, I suppose that’ll work. You know better. Saturday, then?”

“Yes.”

*** 

“I don’t see _why_ Graham needs us there,” Sherlock complained, fixing his hair. “I’m sure my brother can adequately spoil him without us there.”

“I’ve told you, Sherlock, birthdays, for us, are about being with family.”

“We’re not his family.”

John raised an eyebrow. “He’s engaged to Mycroft. I’m married to you. That makes him our brother-in-law, close enough.”

Sherlock huffed. “ _Lestrade_ as a brother-in-law. Mycroft was off his rocker.”

“You like Greg. And you married _me_ , which I’m pretty sure Mycroft has as little good opinion of.”

Sherlock waved a hand. “But you’re perfect,” he said matter-of-factly. “Lestrade’s an idiot.”

John nudged his shoulder playfully. “Be nice. He’s the one who keeps giving you cases. You wouldn’t want to jeopardise that.”

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgment. Not necessarily _agreement_ , but John took what he could get.

*** 

“I hear I’m supposed to offer felicitations on the anniversary of your birth,” Sherlock said stiffly as he walked into the dining room at Mycroft’s house. “Why you feel the need to celebrate a day in which you did nothing but exit someone’s body… oof!” John had elbowed Sherlock.

Greg gave them a smile, but Mycroft frowned. “Sherlock, it’s not his birthday. You’re way off… oh, no,” he groaned as realization struck. “You two _planned_ this, didn’t you?” he said accusingly to Greg and John. 

Sherlock scowled and crossed his arms. “Whatever you two have in mind, I’m _not_ doing it. John, you _lied_ to me.”

“And you didn’t even notice,” John said cheerfully. “Slipping, love?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and grumbled. He dropped into a chair. “Fine, whatever machinations you two put into play, get it over with and then I can leave. I hardly want to be in my brother’s company.”

“Yeah, that, exactly,” John said. “That’s what we’re here about.”

“That I don’t want to be here?”

“No, this idiotic feud. Sherlock, there’s more to it than you know.”

Sherlock huffed. “Whatever story Mycroft told Greg was designed to paint him in a good light. I wouldn’t believe it, John.”

“Maybe you should _hear it_ before judging?”

“Unnecessary. I told you already – he didn’t approve of my sexuality.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said hesitantly, boistered by Greg’s encouraging look. “It was _never_ that. The day you told me, you were covered in bruises. I assumed… well…” He took a deep breath. “I assumed that the bruises were done by a lover, and when you told me it was a man, I had feared what other liberties he may have taken with you. My look of, well, _repulsion_ , was for that, not for the gender you prefer.”

Sherlock gaped. “But it _wasn’t_ a lover at all, Mycroft!” He looked down at the table so he didn’t have to meet his brother’s gaze. “John was the first,” he said quickly and quietly. 

Mycroft frowned. “But… the bruises?”

Sherlock snorted. “I didn’t have as easy a time at Eton as you, brother mine. Before I came home for Christmas, a group of idiots attacked me. Physically _only. That’s_ why I was bruised. You never asked, you simply theorised in advance of data.”

Mycroft blinked as he absorbed this. “Oh, _hell_ ,” he groaned, allowing a rare curse (however mild) to slip past his control. “Sherlock, I’m…”

“Don’t apologise, Mycroft,” Sherlock said sternly. “I should’ve asked, not stormed out.”

John looked at Greg and nodded to the door, a silent signal. Greg nodded back, and they slipped out quietly to let the brothers reconnect.

“That went _surprisingly_ well,” John said. “I expected Sherlock to dig his heels in anyway.”

“I didn’t really expect Mycroft to admit he was wrong to Sherlock,” Greg answered. He shook his head. “You think they’ll stop sniping now?”

John shook his head. “Nah, too many years of sniping at each other. But I think they’ll be kinder. And more honest with each other. We can only hope.”

*** 

They still didn’t talk _much_ , but when they did, it had a less fraught edge to it. John had been right – they did still snipe at each other, but it was playful, not hurtful. 

And the next time Sherlock ended up in hospital (a knife-wielding assailant, one John had viciously subdued), Mycroft arrived within minutes despite the fact that Sherlock wasn’t going to stay. 

“Alright, brother mine?” he asked.

“Mm, thanks to John,” Sherlock said woozily, the analgesics in his system affecting him. “My hero.”

Mycroft rested a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and squeezed. “You made a good choice there, Sherlock. And I’m glad to see you’ll recover quickly.”

Sherlock looked up at his brother. “Thank you,” he said softly. “Mycroft, I… you’ve always been there, haven’t you?”

Mycroft inclined his head. “Of course. You’re my brother.”

Sherlock gave a small smile. “I think, for the first time in a very long time, I’m grateful for that,” he said quietly. 

“As am I, Sherlock.”


End file.
